Rotten Shreds | Elijah Mikaelson

chapter four

My mouth trembled, like I was caught bearing a promise that couldn't be kept. Eyes pierced a maddening canvas that blurred my own clarity, a harrowing portrait that screamed spurning and repudiation. I didn't recognize myself at nights like now.

I was too distraught with my own bloodied fist to notice my seething and angry bestows. I hated not ever knowing what my life could've been like had it not been for Kael and Inej.

I hurdled a vexing slime of salvia towards my dirtied reflection. I loathed the being I had become.

Screaming an aghast cry upon my marred skin, I stood on my heels and surmounted for a broken, loose end. I was a tortuous puppet, string heaved and plucked upon my body as I jerked and swayed for a possible escapement.

The fear breathes in, my horror stricken features mimicking me through vitreous glass. I didn't even think, not a process to my emotions as I whirled my hand towards the desk of disintegrating fragments and spiraled an eldritch tune.

All demolished and ruptured, I could not longer see a reflection that I scorned. Only an abhorred and wretched self that bawled for sanctuary — a peace of mind and safety —  out of respect and dignity.

I was only an aching soul, with no possible route for change. A widow without the grief.

My eyes charged towards the door, rebuking my efforts as I settled myself back into the chair, pretending that I wasn't just a spineless woman. I heard faint whispers and a jiggle against the knob.

With clotted fingers, I hurriedly tried to place the severed glass back into its rightful place. Through the clutches of my profoundness, I winced a rueful irate amongst my distasteful behavior.

Kael would surely have my head with the way I have acted.

Even within an unsteady breath, my eyes glued to the door until the shuddering sound stopped. I couldn't suspect who it must've been, but I fetched my cloth and precipitously rubbed and irritated my plump and somber flesh. All I had begun to see was red.

I wanted death, never wishing to be it. Forever witnessed and engraved into the cruel fate of never truly dying. Immortality wasn't a gift, not when it was used for chambering vengeance.

Caged and dolorous, I felt worse and more petrifying than a needy victim. I was innocence doused and threatened by impurity.

I turned into everything I had ever truly hated. I became the woman I had nightmares about. An entrancing veil between maim and anguish, I had no choice but to endure such insulation.

I was insanity and silence. Mourn and grief. Hate and spite. I was afraid of my own shadow. Too feared upon the sinister revolts that had been the sulking glum of a sapped widow.

I hadn't known how much longer my presence would've been requisite. But I frowned upon that revelation, actually knowing myself to be a liar. I was to never be released to my own intelligence.

Kael and Inej did not trust me, as I didn't to them. And after some time, I too learned that I couldn't trust my intuition.

Any time I spoke, I knew I was wrong. And perhaps, that's where my uncertainty and frustration lies. Not towards my deceased husband, but for myself. I lower my head, relying and banking on the wooden fractures to support such unevenness.

I emerge into a intrepid sleep, but not without a coveted and searing yell towards the mirror. What a menacing face that reflected back into me.  

୨ৎ

There was no will for a certain Mikaelson. No governed grounds or purposeful spirits; he simply maneuvered upon his own gravitating intel. Acknowledgment of Benedetta's wishes were spitefully ignored, especially when he was berated by his own brother.